


Dancing with the Avengers: Most Memorable Year Night

by Eiiri



Series: Dancing with the Avengers [4]
Category: Dancing with the Stars (US) RPF, Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bruce Banner & Tony Stark Friendship, Bruce Doesn't Dance, Bucky Is A Troll, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Dancing with the Avengers, Dancing with the stars – Freeform, Gen, Implied Clint Barton/Phil Coulson – Freeform, Matt Murdock & Foggy Nelson Friendship, Minor Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Natasha is a freaking ballerina and don't you forget it, Past Bruce Banner/Betty Ross – Freeform, Reality TV, Thank god for the six-second delay, Tony is a Showboat, Wanda is not good at people, he's fast, she's weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-10 21:38:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11135193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eiiri/pseuds/Eiiri
Summary: Episode two of a very special season of Dancing with the Stars!Sometimes superheroes need a PR boost, Tony decided getting the entire team on DWTS was a good way to do that. This is the result.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fictionalized season 26 of DWTS. (In real life at time of posting we are between seasons 24 and 25; planning and preliminary writing happened during season 22.)  
> Assume Tony is paying for any amount they go over their timeslot.  
> Music for this episode can be found at: https://8tracks.com/dwta/most-memorable-year  
> Thanks to my friend Eliana for assistance writing the judges' comments.

The Dancing with the Stars title card faded away as poignant, generic piano music played and Clint faded in, smiling nostalgically, holding 1990 in block numbers. “I mean, I got to live every little kid's dream.”

Clint faded away to Bucky, cradling 2015 in his left arm. “I didn't really exist between 1945 and 2015. It's a crazy thing to start existing again.”

It faded to Tony, who spun 2009 in his fingers. “Worst thing I have ever woke up to—and that's saying something—but I _became Iron Man_. Was not planning on that, but it's probably the best thing that's ever happened to me.”

Steve held up 1945 in one hand, 2012 in the other. He glanced between the two blocks. “A lot happened in, from my perspective, a _very_ short amount of time.”

Each with one arm around the other, Wanda and Pietro held up 2014. Wanda looked at her brother. “We lost—”

“Everything,” Pietro finished. “Absolutely everything.”

Wanda nodded.

Sam held up 2004. “There is nothing else quite like flying, let me tell you.”

Smirking slightly to herself, Natasha held out a sign that said CLASSIFIED. She shrugged. “S.H.I.E.L.D. saved my life.” Her expression sobered. “Clint saved my soul.”

Laughing, Rhodey held up 1985. “I walk into class and the only seat left open is next to this kid—not like college kid, kid. Like, _kid_ kid. And I'm thinking, who's little brother is this?”

Thor ran a hand through his hair and held up 2011. “Had I not been banished to Midgard, I never would have met the love of my life.”

Matt held up 1998. He sighed. “I was okay. I could handle having lost my sight, until I lost my dad. Then I couldn't handle anything.”

Bruce held up 1988. “I did drugs for science and met the only woman who's put up with my particular brand of crazy for longer than about a week.” He chuckled. “The eighties were interesting.”

Grinning, Foggy held up 2007. “I think everybody remembers their first year of college. The things you do, the people you meet—it changes your life forever.”

Things faded to the ballroom with Erin and Tom. “Welcome to Dancing with the Avengers here on Dancing with the Stars,” Tom said. “Now, you might want to get out your tissues, because it's Most Memorable Year night, and we all know how emotional things can get, both on and off the dance floor.”

“Indeed we do, Tom,” Erin said. “I think this is the earliest in the season we've ever had Most Memorable Year night.”

“You're right, it is,” Tom confirmed. “But it really would be a shame not to hear from all of these incredible people about the years that have effected them the most. With that, let's get on with it and bring out our stars!”

One pair at a time, each of the couples came out onstage as Tom called them: Tony and Kym, Steve and Karina, Bucky and Sharna, Wanda and Val, Pietro and Anna, Bruce and Edyta, Matt and Peta, Foggy and Jenna, Natasha and Mark, Clint and Lindsay, Rhodey and Allison, Sam and Witney, and Thor and Emma.

“Starting us off tonight is Steve Rogers,” Erin said, “better known to the world as Captain America, and the _two_ years that have shaped his life the most. Let's hear his story.”

Steve sat in his interview chair, leaning over with his hands clasped, elbows on his knees. “It's hard for people to wrap their heads around but, for me, 1945 and 2012 were one year. I went into the ice in March, woke up two months later in May, but in those two months sixty-seven years had passed.”

Two newspaper headlines filled the screen, one from 1945 announcing Steve's death, the other from 2012 announcing his rediscovery.

“I can hardly imagine how crazy that was,” Karina said, crosslegged on the studio floor across from Steve sitting the same way.

Steve half laughed. “It was a busy year. Joined the army, met the only woman I've ever really loved, got big, went into show business, punched Hitler in the face a few hundred times, went to war, lost my best friend, died, time traveled, and suddenly got rich off of nearly seventy years of back pay.”

“That's a lot,” Karina noted.

“It's a whole lot,” Steve agreed. In his interview, Steve leaned back in his chair. “Being here, being alive at all, is insane. I crashed a plane into the Arctic Ocean. I said my goodbyes on the way down. I didn't think I was ever going to see the light of day again, but here I am.”

“What part of all that really hits you?” Karina asked in rehearsal. “What's the story here?”

Steve let out a breath, ran his hands through his hair, glanced over at the mirror, then pointed at his reflection. “That. That still surprises me. In a lot of ways I still think of myself as the skinny, sickly kid I always was, but then that kid died in World War Two, and I don't always know who it is that they pulled out of the ice.”

“Wow, that's heavy.” Karina took a breath and nodded. “We can work with that.”

In the ballroom, Steve stood in the center of the floor, dressed in an army T-shirt and khakis, dimly lit by amber-toned lights. As “Some Nights” by Fun started to play, Steve was joined for the start of his foxtrot, not by Karina, but by Sasha, done up in too big fatigues and a too big helmet. He and Steve saluted each other before they began to dance. At the first chorus, Sasha sashayed away and was replaced by Karina in a red dress and blue blazer, her hair done up in victory rolls. Near the end of their dance, the lighting changed to bright and cool-toned with the flashing, moving signage of modern day Times Square projected on the dance floor.

As the lights returned to normal, Steve and Karina went over to Tom and the judges. Half audible, Steve asked, “Where's Sasha?”

“He went up to the Skybox,” Tom said. “You'll see him in a minute. But first let's hear from our judges. Carrie Ann?”

“Thank you for sharing your story, Cap—I mean, Steve,” Carrie Ann said. “You know, we all see you as this amazing hero, and I think we forget how hard that transition in time probably was for you. The dance was beautiful, but I feel like you need to work on the grace in your arms and making sure your lines are clean all the way through. Right now your hands kind of look like a catcher’s mitt. So really work on grace for next time. Great job.”

Steve nodded as Bruno was cued.

“Steve, darling, that was a beautiful story you told on that dance floor. You’re a natural showman in how you bring emotion and energy into the ballroom. That being said, Carrie Ann is right.” Bruno rose from his chair to demonstrate while he spoke. “You really need to work on the fluidity in the arms and making sure that you finish each line gracefully.”

“Steve, that was a wonderful way to start the night,” Len said. “You certainly have a commanding presence about you. But the grace in the dancing just wasn’t there for me. You’re a big guy and you’re trying to dance small. It makes the dance look choppy and disjointed. Your posture in hold is good, though, so you have that going for you.”

Steve made a face and let himself be ushered off with Karina to where Erin was waiting for them with Sasha. “So,” Erin said as they found their marks, “Steve, what do you think of Sasha as your mini-me?”

“Well,” Steve looked at Sasha while the dancer stretched up to put his prop helmet on Steve, “he's too tall actually.”

All of them laughed. “It's an honor, really, though,” Sasha said, “to get to dance with Steve, to be even a shadow of him.”

Steve glanced down bashfully. Karina gestured between them. “This has been happening all week. If they weren't both married I'd think they were flirting.”

Erin laughed. “Let's get your scores.”

 

Carrie Ann Inaba: “Seven.”

Len Goodman: “Six.”

Bruno Tonioli: “Seven.”

 

“Twenty out of thirty,” Erin said.

“That's better than last week,” Steve said happily.

Karina laughed, “It _is_ better than last week.”

“Back to you, Tom,” Erin said over the excitement.

“Now, the god of thunder's most memorable year is quite down to earth—literally,” Tom joked as they cut to him. “Let's see how Thor and Emma prepared for his contemporary about 2011, the year he got banished to New Mexico, of all places, and met the love of his life.”

In the studio, Jane peeked in through the door. Thor spotted her and threw his arms up. “Lady Jane!”

She laughed, stepped in, and let herself be swept up in a hug and kiss. Once back on her own feet, she gave Emma a little smile. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

Being interviewed, Thor said, “Meeting Jane is certainly one of the best things that's ever happened to me. Knowing her has given me perspective I never would have had without her.”

It cut to another interview, this one with a young woman with curly brown hair and purple-framed glasses. At the bottom of the screen it said: Darcy Lewis—Thor's friend. Darcy grinned, slumped comfortably in her chair. “Thor is completely insane but he's good for Jane. He's about the only person who can distract her from her mad science long enough for her to act like a human person. And, like, their meet-cute was her hitting him with her truck in the middle of a freaky tornado thing. It doesn't get more epic than that. They are _obviously_ meant to be.”

In rehearsal Emma asked Thor, who still had his arm around Jane, “So, what's she to you?”

“Oh, she's everything. She's perfect.”

“No I'm not,” Jane objected.

“She asked me,” Thor said. “And I think you are.”

“Well, you're wrong.”

Thor shrugged. “You're the smart one of the two of us.”

Emma laughed. “You're so cute.”

A different interview with titles reading Queen Frigga—Thor's Mother came up with Frigga regally dressed, sitting in a rather generic interview room, her hands folded. “Thor has always been,” she paused briefly to consider her words, “impulsive. And impatient. His relationship with Jane has helped him learn to consider his actions and to take responsibility. She's good for him and an incredibly intelligent woman.”

In rehearsal with Jane no longer there, Emma took Thor's hands. “What do you say we make your dance this week a love letter to her?”

“I like that.” Thor grinned and nodded. “I like that a lot.”

Things came back to the ballroom, where Thor was in a grey hoodie and jeans with his hair pulled back, Emma draped against him in a floaty galaxy-print dress. “Just The Way You Are” by Bruno Mars played and they began their contemporary. Once during the dance, the camera cut away from the swirling of Emma's gauzy skirt as Thor lifted her to show Jane and Darcy in the audience, both smiling, Darcy side-hugging Jane as they watched. The dance ended in an embrace, which turned from tender to an excited glomp once the music ended. Emma and Thor trotted over to Tom and the judges.

“Beautiful, beautiful,” Tom said, herding Thor and Emma to their marks. He turned to the judges. “Let's start with Bruno.”

“Well, I can see why she fell in love with you,” Bruno said with a knowing side-eye. “Stunning, darling. Those lifts were absolutely incredible; not surprising since you’re a god. Now, perhaps it was your excitement to see Jane’s reaction, but you were a bit ahead of the music. Listen to the beat,” he tapped his hand rhythmically on the table, “and follow Emma’s lead for the timing. But wonderful job.”

“Len?” Tom prompted.

“You really told a story with that dance, Thor. You remind me of my younger self, very suave and strong,” Len laughed at his own joke. “But Bruno’s right, you were ahead of the music. It felt like you were rushing through the dance. But otherwise, job well done.”

“Guys,” Carrie Ann said to the audience at large, “that’s how you get a girl to fall in love with you. But seriously, Thor, that was a beautiful dance. Those lifts were completely insane, and you did them with such ease and grace. I, personally, didn’t think you were rushing through the music. But next time, I really want you to work on being a bit softer.” She made a gentle, floaty movement with her hands. “You’re such a big guy, and you can be a little rough sometimes. I could tell you were trying to be soft and gentle with this dance but I think we need a bit more of that from you so it really comes across that way.”

Thor nodded, Emma squeezed his arm, and Tom said, “Okay, off to the skybox with the two of you.”

They obeyed.

“Come here, you,” Erin said as Thor and Emma joined her. “That was so sweet.”

Grinning like a fool, Thor shrugged a little and looked off toward the audience behind him. “A love letter ought to be sweet, I think.”

“You're right, it should,” Erin agreed. “We asked Jane if she'd join us up here in the skybox but she was shy and said no.”

Thor chuckled. “She doesn't really like a lot of attention.”

“You don't seem to mind it, though.”

“I'm used to it,” Thor hedged.

“Used to it?” Emma scoffed. “You love it. You're a great big ham.”

Erin laughed. “Well, we love it. Let's get your scores.”

 

Carrie Ann Inaba: “Seven.”

Len Goodman: “Seven.”

Bruno Tonioli: “Seven.”

 

“That's twenty-one out of thirty for Thor and Emma,” Erin said, the pair hugging behind her as she handed things back to Tom.

“Up next is, arguably, the more stable of our resident geniuses,” Tom said. “We'll hear from Dr. Bruce Banner about his most memorable year, when we come back.”


	2. Chapter 2

“In 1988 I was a broke college student,” Bruce said with half a laugh in his interview, “so I signed up to be in a study, which is how I got paid to try LSD. Hated it, never did it again, I don't recommend it. But doing that study is also how I first met Betty Ross.”

Things switched to Betty being interviewed. She was in a lab coat, her dark hair pulled up in a messy bun. “Bruce Banner is a dork. Don't let him tell you otherwise. He's completely impossible, stubborn, incredibly empathetic, and a big ol' dork.”

In rehearsal, Edyta asked, “You and Betty were a couple?”

Bruce nodded. “That's right.”

“But not anymore.”

“No.” He shook his head and crossed his arms. “Life just sort of got in the way of that. We lost contact for a while. Her father absolutely hates me. He keeps sending tanks after me.”

“I can see how tanks would spoil the romance,” Edyta said carefully.

Bruce gave a short laugh. “Yeah. She and I are still friends though.”

In his interview, Bruce mused slowly, “Betty was my first serious relationship. At the time, it felt like a fairytale. And I do miss that. I'll always miss that. But I know that it's in the past, and I think by now we both know better than to try to get it back. This is supposed to be most memorable, and that's what it is—a memory. A beautiful memory.”

In the ballroom, Bruce and Edyta stood in hold—her in a soft rose colored gown, him in a slightly purplish suit—and swayed to the opening of Queen's “The Millionaire Waltz.” Their swaying slowly evolved into stepping until, by the time the lyrics began, they were waltzing properly, if a bit stiffly.

When the dance was done, Bruce and Edyta each looped an arm around the other's waist and came over to the judges.

“Bruce, thank you for sharing your story,” Carrie Ann said. “It’s so nice to get the opportunity to get to know all of you as people rather than heroes. That being said,” she grimaced, “your waltz just wasn’t the most graceful. It felt like you were walking your way through the steps instead of really gliding through them. So work on your fluidity for next week.”

Len shrugged amicably. “Well that was a good effort. However, I have to agree with Carrie Ann; there just wasn’t much grace to this dance. It looked like Edyta was dancing around you while you stood there. You really need to work on the grace in your dances. But thank you for letting us hear your story.”

“Well” Bruno said with his usual air, “there’s nothing wrong with a little experimentation. Unfortunately, Len and Carrie Ann are right; you really need to work on making your movements more fluid, darling. Stop thinking about the movements so much and just let it go. Maybe a few more of those studies will help.”

Bruce hid behind his hand to laugh and got shooed off to chit chat with Erin. “Maybe not the best waltz the world has ever seen,” she said.

Bruce shook his head. “Definitely not.”

“You gave it a good try though,” Edyta said.

Bruce shrugged. “Yeah, I tried.”

“And we are proud of you for it,” Erin said. “But I think we're all still scrating out heads over this study you were in.”

“It was the eighties!” Bruce threw his hands up. “It was very strange. Don't do drugs, kids.”

“Good advice,” Erin concluded. “Let's get your scores.”

 

Carrie Ann Inaba: “Six.”

Len Goodman: “Five.”

Bruno Tonioli: “Five.”

 

“That's sixteen out of thirty for Bruce and Edyta,” Erin said, “so if these guys make it through tonight they're going to need your votes to stay in the competition. Tom?”

“From the science lab, to the skies,” Tom said. “Let's see how Sam Wilson's life was changed by the year he learned to fly.”

“I always wanted to be a pilot,” Sam's voice said over a photo of a young Sam holding up a crayon drawing of what was probably an airplane. The picture faded into a home movie of a slightly older Sam running around a living room decorated for Christmas, a model SR-71 Blackbird in his hand, making swoosh and vroom noises for it as he trampled discarded wads of wrapping paper. “I was one of those kids who you ask 'em what they wanna be when they grow up and you get the same answer for years and years.” Things faded to Sam in his interview chair. “It wasn't until 2004 that I realized I'd been just a little bit wrong all along.” He grinned. “I don't like planes, I like flying.” He rubbed his hands together. “First flight with the wingpack and that was it for me.”

Footage played of him doing incredible aerobatics, most of it from Avengers training activities.

“I joined the military to get me away from home,” Sam explained to Witney in rehearsal. “I knew it would change my life. If you don't know that going in when you enlist, you're an idiot and you shouldn't be enlisting. I had no idea, though, how much it would change me and change the course of my life once I retired. I tested out some fancy new tech in the Iraq War aaaaand now I'm an Avenger.”

“I'm glad you are,” Witney said. “I wouldn't get to know you otherwise.”

Sam grinned. “Fate knew you and me would make just too good of a power team.”

When things came back to the ballroom, Sam and Witney—each in a black T-shirt and dark green cargo pants—circled to join each other in the center of the dance floor for their quickstep to “Fly By Night” by Rush. The dance was full of energy and plenty of dramatic leaps at every mention of flying in the lyrics. When the music turned pensive at the bridge, the dance turned tender before bursting back into the excitement of the chorus.

Sam and Witney were out of breath when they went to stand with Tom, but they were both grinning. Tom prompted Len.

“I can certainly tell you're a military man,” Len said. “It shows in your shoulders, your posture is very good. Your footwork, though, could stand to be cleaned up. That said, overall, your dance worked for me.” He shrugged amicably.

“Sam,” Bruno began, “I would love to fly away with you. You have such swagger! Now, that can be good and back for a quickstep but I think you made it work, darling. I do have to agree with Len that you could clean up for your footwork. Those kicks and flicks do have to be sharp. But I love the energy you bring to it. Wonderful, darling.”

“That was so much fun,” Carrie Ann said, “It was a great dance, and I hate it but I had to take of a point for a lift—”

“It's a dance about flying!” Bruno interjected.

“There aren't supposed to be any lifts in quickstep,” Carrie Ann countered quickly. “Really, though, Sam, that was a beautiful dance.”

“Thank you,” Sam said, then he and Witney went off to where Erin was waiting for them.

“I'm with Bruno,” Erin said. “Can I fly away with you?”

“When the show's over, sure,” Sam said with a grin. “Wings are in Steve's truck.”

“Hey, I get to go first,” Witney demanded.

Sam laughed and Erin said, “I'm okay with that. Let's get your scores.”

 

Carrie Ann Inaba: “Seven.”

Len Goodman: “Seven.”

Bruno Tonioli: “Eight.”

 

“Twenty two out of thirty,” Erin said. “How's that feel?”

“Feels good, man,” Sam said brightly. “Whole thing feels good.”

“Glad to hear it,” Erin laughed. Things cut away.

“We'll hear from Natasha when we come back,” Tom announced from the middle of a group of audience members, bopping to the show's theme music.


	3. Chapter 3

“Natasha won't tell us what year her most memorable year actually is,” Tom said as they came back from comercial. “We _could_ sift through tons of encrypted files on the internet and figure it out, or we could just watch her tell us about it. The second option seems like more fun.”

Natasha was tucked up in her interview chair, feet folded underneath her. She rubbed her hands together. “I spent most of my childhood in a program called Red Room.” She gave half a cold laugh. “Clint tends to call it 'scary Russian boarding school fight club,' which is about right. It was a pipeline for grooming human weapons.”

A photograph faded in of a dead-eyed little girl, her mousy brown hair pulled back in twin french braids. Typewriter font beneath the picture read Наталья А. Романова, subtitled “Natalia A. Romanova.”

“That was the only world I knew,” Natasha said over the photo. “It's a lot like growing up in a cult.” It cut to her and Clint standing next to each other in the practice studio, talking to Mark. “S.H.I.E.L.D. sent him to kill me,” she said jerking a thumb at Clint.

“Yeah, they did,” Clint said. “I didn't, though. Obviously.”

“You still shot me,” she challenged, but there was a grin playing on her lips.

“You shot me first!” He hiked up his pants leg. “See, she shot me.”

The camera obligingly zoomed in on the bullet scar.

“I've got one, too.” Natasha rolled her shorts up a little and turned her leg out to show the scar on her thigh. “Bullet,” she said, pointing to his scar. “Arrow,” she said, pointing to her own. Mark shook his head in amazement.

They showed S.H.I.E.L.D.'s mugshots of her, her hair shorter, curlier, and a brighter fire engine red than it was now.

“Clint made the call to save my life,” she explained. “He convinced S.H.I.E.L.D. to take me in. He was one of the first people in my life, since I lost my parents, to see me and treat me as a human being. I didn't know what to do with that at first. But the moment we met, the moment he shot me,” she chuckled, “that moment changed everything.”

In the practice studio, Natasha muttered under her breath in Russian and re-tied her dance skirt with excessive intensity.

“Hey, c'mon Natasha, don't get frustrated,” Mark said gently.

“I can do this better,” she said definitely.

“You're doing the steps right—”

“But it doesn't look right, and you know that.”

He went over and rubbed her shoulders. “Take a breath, we've still got time to iron things out.”

She took a breath, but it came out as a huff. “The paso is a fight, it looking combative shouldn't be not working.”

“Well, yeah,” Mark said slowly, “but this one's you fighting with your best friend 'cause he's saving your life and you don't know that yet.”

Natasha opened her mouth, closed it, and held up a finger. “That.”

Things dissolved back to the ballroom where Natasha was curled in a ball on the stage steps, her hair pulled into a tight bun, the long sheer-but-beaded skirt of her high-necked black dress swept behind her like a peacock's tail. Mark stepped up to her in a black suit and dark glasses. He touched her shoulder as the crystalline tinkling of AFI's “Prelude 12/21” began to play. With a dramatic swirl of her skirt, she rose to face him and they began their paso doble. The body of the dance was fiercely combative, but with the last few notes of the song, Natasha folded into Mark's lap and he cradled her. He gave her an extra squeeze before they both got to their feet and trotted over to the judges' table.

“Natalia, my dear,” Bruno said, “that was so good, so precise, absolutely beautiful, but,” he grimaced almost apologetically, “it felt like you weren't really here, darling. Something was missing, and it's really a shame because, otherwise, that dance was near perfection.”

“You know,” Carrie Ann said, “you've been through so much. I can't imagine what it must have been like for you, growing up under those circumstances, and it makes sense that that would have left you extremely wary of letting yourself be vulnerable. That's what I think Bruno was picking up on, because the intensity and the energy was was there, but it felt a little shallow, like you're scared to really go there and let yourself really _feel_ it.”

Natasha nodded slightly and smoothed her eyebrow.

“I thought it what a beautiful dance,” Len said, “but you have to learn to lead with your heel, not your toe. That's your ballet background coming back to bite you. If you can train yourself out of that, though, you're really going to be a force to be reckoned with this season, I think.”

Mark gave her shoulders a squeeze and they headed off to the skybox. “Hey there, Miss Classified,” Erin said, arm out, beckoning Natasha and Mark to her. “First of all, can we take a moment to appreciate this dress? Your skirt is amazing.”

“It's heavy,” Natasha said.

“It really is,” Mark added. “In dress rehearsal earlier I nearly dropped her on her face because I was not prepared for the weight of the dress.”

“Oh, no! Well, we're all glad you didn't drop her tonight. Now, Natasha,” Erin started, “What Carrie Ann said about you not letting yourself—”

“She's right,” Natasha said simply. “She's absolutely right. I've spent my entire life making myself not feel, or not show what I feel, or show what I don't feel, and not being able to be vulnerable because any little weakness would mean death.” She shrugged. “That's not something you can undo in two weeks.”

“I wouldn't imagine so,” Erin agreed. “Let's get your scores.”

 

 

Carrie Ann Inaba: “Eight.”

Len Goodman: “Eight.”

Bruno Tonioli: “Eight.”

 

Natasha grinned and gave Mark's arm a squeeze.

“Twenty four out of thirty for Natasha and Mark,” Erin said. “Highest score of the night—so far, of course.”

“And she earned it,” Mark said firmly.

“Aww,” Natasha cooed playfully, “flatterer.”

“Don't forget, though,” Erin addressed to the camera, “nobody can get through on judges' scores alone, not even this beauty, so you've gotta vote. Back to you, Tom.”

“This week,” Tom began, “Clint had a little surprise for his dance partner to help get her into the feel of his most memorable year, which is a bit of a surprise itself. Let's take a look.”

Rather than sitting in the usual armchair, Clint was perched comfortably in a hoop trapeze. “When I was a kid, my brother and I ran away and joined the circus.”

Walking down a brick on one side, concrete on the other alley, Lindsay glanced back at the camera crew. “What are we doing here?”

A voice told her, “Read the sign.”

She looked up at the sign over the door at the end of the alley. “Cirque School?”

She went inside to find Clint happily dangling from the rafters on an aerial silk. “Hi!”

She laughed at him. “Okay. Wow. Hi.”

Back in his hoop interview, he said, “In hindsight, running away to the circus was not a great idea, and the fact that they just kinda took us in without question is proof that we wound up with a really sketchy circus.” He shifted so he was sitting more sideways in the hoop and it swung a little from the movement. “Also, I don't know what the hell is wrong with Iowa child protective services that nobody ever came looking for us. But joining the circus was my first escape from being trailer trash. And it was awesome.”

Clint tumbled gracefully down the silk, disengaged himself from it, and dropped neatly onto his feet on the floor. Lindsay clapped her hands. “We have got to work that into our dance somehow.”

Clint grinned. “Oh hell yes.”

As they worked on the dance—Cirque School serving as their studio for the week—Lindsay said, “Okay, how quick can you get up there?”

“Pretty damn quick.”

“So,” she pulled him into a tango hold, “if we do something like _this_ ,” she walked him through a few steps, “and then, okay, you kinda push me over.”

“Like a walk over?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” He did so, giving her just enough of a push to flip her over onto her own feet once her hands were planted on the floor.

She gestured at him. “Now you're free to climb the scarf thing.”

“The silk,” he corrected.

“Right. The silk.” She crossed her arms and glanced up the length of it to the ceiling. “Next two counts enough, you think?”

He shrugged. “Probably.”

In the ballroom, Clint and Lindsay posed in front of a billowing backdrop of red silk hung from the ceiling, held out by the troop dancers. Both of them were in red and gold ringmasters' tailcoats, but where he had black trousers, she had bloomers and fishnets. With the first clarion crash of “Circus” by Britney Spears, the troop dancers flapped the silks then dropped them and retreated offstage as Clint and Lindsay sized each other up and roughly pulled one another into hold. She clawed her scarlet fingernails through his hair. He ran a hand down her leg, lifted her onto his hip, and spun them both around. Later she ripped his tailcoat off and tossed it aside, leaving him shirtless. They did the assisted walkover from their package and Clint climbed with remarkable speed and grace to the top of the silks. Wrapping the red drapes around himself, he dangled upside down, reaching out toward Lindsay while she reached up toward him from her position in a half-split on the floor. He pinwheeled dramatically down the silks, disengaged himself from the fabric, and let Lindsay drag him back into hold to finish their Argentine tango.

They trotted over to the judge's table as Tom prompted Len.

“You know, I'm really not one for fuss and gimmicks, so that whole thing with the silk isn't much to my taste,” he shushed the booing audience, “but even I have to admit it was quite impressive. The rest of it was a proper argentine tango, which I appreciate, and you have a good frame, but your feet get awful fumbly. You have to clean that up.”

“Len does have a point about your footwork,” Carrie Ann agreed, “but that was such a fun dance, and we could all tell that you were having fun, and I love that. Your story is so unique, and your dance reflected that. I liked having the silk routine in there, it's a part of your experience with the circus, and by incorporating it, you took us with you to the circus. Very well done.”

“She may like the silks,” Bruno said, “but I _love_ them. So artistic, so acrobatic, and so well incorporated. You could maybe clean up your footwork, like they said,” he shruged and waved a hand, “but you're a such a natural performer, I think we're the only ones looking at your feet because we have to. Your dancing is as entertaining and beautiful as you are, darling.”

Clint laughed. “Thank you.”

Tom ushered him and Lindsay off.

“You know,” Erin said as Clint and Lindsay joined her, “that was awfully sexy for being about a kid running away to the circus.”

“Well,” Clint chuckled, “I stayed with the circus until my late teens. That's kinda where I learned what sexy even is.”

“He also had his first kiss in the circus,” Lindsay added.

Clint looked at her. “I forgot I told you about that.”

Erin laughed a little. “This sounds like a good story.”

“Not really.” Clint shrugged. “Just another awkward teenaged kiss, only we both happened to be aerialists.”

“If you say so,” Erin said skeptically. “Let's get your scores.”

 

Carrie Ann Inaba: “Seven.”

Len Goodman: “Six.”

Bruno Tonioli: “Seven.”

 

“That's a twenty out of thirty Erin said.

“Does that tie us with Steve?” Clint asked.

Lindsay nodded and Erin said, “It sure does.”

Clint nodded. “Cool.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Honestly,” Tom said as he leaned against the judges' table, “anyone could guess what Tony Stark's most memorable year is. Really, who'd argue with him though?”

“You know,” Tony said in his interview, “I've woken up to some really bad sh**. But car battery wired to my chest to keep shrapnel out of my heart 'cause a bomb blew up, and now I'm being held prisoner in a cave really takes the cake.”

Kym walked into the practice room where Tony was standing, idly reading a magazine, wearing the full Iron Man suit. Kym turned and walked right back out of the room. Tony turned to look after her. “Kym?” he said, voice distorted by the suit's speakers. “Where are you going?”

“I, uh.” Back in his interview, Tony cleared his throat. “I'm more traumatized by that, still, than I like to admit. I joke, I play, and that's how I deal with things, but it's also how I avoid dealing with things.”

In the studio, Kym and Tony talked, him no longer in the suit, though it was standing in the corner out of focus. She tapped on his reactor through his T-shirt. “So, this.”

“Yeah, that was a real wake up call to my own mortality.” He drummed his fingers against it. “Made me realize that I don't know that I'm always gonna be here the next day, which made me think about what kind of legacy I wanted to leave behind. Figured drunkard merchant of death wasn't a good one.”

“No,” Kym agreed.

He took a breath then nodded to the suit. “You sure I can't dance in that?”

She eyed the suit. “You can't move fast enough for a jive in that.”

“I—”

“Tony, no.”

When things came back to the ballroom, Tony was not in the suit. Instead, he was in skinny red corduroys, a red shirt, gold vest and glittery gold sneakers that all together looked very much like the suit. Kym was with him on the upper stage in a red dress and gold shoes. Devo's “Human Rocket” started up, they marched robotically to the beat down the steps, then broke out into a full force jive when the music picked up. Partway through, Tony hopped up to dance on the judges' table. He briefly pulled Kym up to join him, then they both hopped back down to resume dancing on the floor.

At the end of the dance, Tony had to brace himself on his knees for a moment to catch his breath before going with Kym to stand over by the judges. Tom touched his shoulder. “You okay there?”

“Oh, I'm fine,” Tony wheezed. “Just old and technology dependent.”

“Alright,” Tom chuckled. “Judges?”

“Oh, Tony,” Bruno said, bowing his head despairingly, “if only your body were as quick as your brain. You were trying to keep up with Kym and with the music, you really were, I can tell, but you just couldn't quite manage it. You had fun nonetheless, I think, though, and you told a story which, tonight, is really what we're here for.” He held up his palms, almost smirking.

“You are definitely fun to watch,” Carrie Ann said, “but Bruno's right, you were behind the music and out of sync with Kym and your footwork could use to be sharper. You bring so much personality, though. You're so, _you_. I love to see that. And, I know I remember your 'I am Iron Man' press conference. This was a really interesting take on that.”

Len shook his head. “That was a great show, but not a great dance. You were trying, which I appreciate, but your whole lower half was just falling apart on you, wasn't it? At least, it's only week two, so work on your footwork going forward. I do have to hand it to you, you have done amazing things in your life, and you're so much fun to watch telling that story.”

“Thanks,” Tony nodded then looped his arm through Kym's to trot off to the skybox.

“There's our human rocket!” Erin greeted. “Let's see, last week you had gold pants, this week it's a gold vest and shoes. Is this going to be a running thing?”

Tony shrugged. “Maybe.”

“We'll see what we get for next week,” Kym said.

“Hm,” Erin hummed. “Next week is Disney night—I'm sure the've got to be Disney songs that fit with gold, right?”

“There's gotta be a few,” Tony said.

“There must be. Anyway,” Erin said, “other than out of breath, how do you feel?”

“Great,” Tony laughed. “The experience that led to me becoming Iron Man sucked, but actually being Iron Man rocks, so that's more what we went with.”

“Makes sense,” Erin said. “Let's get your scores.”

 

Carrie Ann Inaba: “Seven.”

Len Goodman: “Six.”

Bruno Tonioli: “Six.”

 

“Nineteen out of thirty,” Erin said as Tony frowned and Kym rubbed his shoulder. “If you wanna see how much more gold our costuming department can put Tony in, you've gotta vote for him. Dial carefully. Tom?”

“Sergeant Barnes has a wider range of years to choose from than most,” Tom said, “but he's the first to admit he doesn't remember them all very well—lets see which, for him, has been the most memorable.”

Slowly, an Arlington National Cemetery tombstone faded in, a small U.S. flag planted in front of it fluttering gently in the breeze, a Presbyterian cross and the name James Buchanan Barnes carved into the white stone, beneath that, under his rank, the dates March 10, 1919, January 17, 1945.

“James Barnes died in 1945,” Bucky said simply. He was leaning against the side of his chair, sitting on the floor, not looking at the camera, the left sleeve of his hoodie empty and limp. “He fell off a train into a ravine and was erased from history for the next seventy years.”

A silent newsreel ran of Bucky and Steve laughing with the other Howling Commandos. It faded to black and was replaced by ABC news footage of a reporter standing in front of the smoldering wreck of several cars, saying, “We have unconfirmed reports of Captain America having been seen fighting a masked man with a metal arm.”

“My memory was wiped so many times,” Bucky said to Sharna, shaking his head, “false memories implanted, programs and identities layered over my brain, that there are parts of my past I just do not remember. Won't ever remember. And there's the bits where I'm not always sure what's real memory and what's programming. The price of remembering who I was, and figuring out what really happened to me, is remembering everything I've done when I was someone I don't know.”

“I can only imagine,” Sharna murmured.

“What makes 2015 so important,” Bucky said in his interview, fiddling with his empty sleeve, “is it's when I started remembering again. In both senses. I started to remember what had been taken from me, and I started making and keeping new memories again.”

In practice, Bucky sat heavily on the floor and took a long breath. Sharna came over and rubbed his left shoulder. “I know this is tough.”

“I'm okay.” Bucky ran his right hand over his face. “Steve's gonna cry though.”

Back in the ballroom, Bucky stood under a single spotlight in utter silence, head down, dry ice fog pooling in a slowly swirling mass at his feet. He had a blue, strap-fronted jacket buttoned closed and torn jeans. In the quiet and dark, Sharna walked up to him looking very much like a cappette. She carefully unbuttoned his jacket without letting it fall open. Then all at once, all the lights came on, Sharna pulled open Bucky's jacket to show the Captain America T-shirt he had on underneath it, and the peppy piano intro of ABBA's “Waterloo” started. With that, Bucky and Sharna jumped into an energetic and boisterous quickstep. In the background, Carrie Ann was laughing and smacking the table.

Sharna got swung between Buck's legs. He fluffled her skirt. They both grinned like idiots the entire time. When the dance was over and the music ended, Bucky piggy backed her over to stand with Tom. Half audible, she asked, “Are you going to put me down?”

“Nope.”

She rolled her eyes and settled her chin on his shoulder while Tom prompted Carrie Ann.

She smacked the table. “What was that?!” she demanded, laughing. “You had me all ready to cry then you come out bopping along to ABBA..” She shook her head while Bucky smirked and Sharna laughed. “I am _so_ glad that, after everything you've been through, you're at a point here where you can be cheeky about it. That was great, but you're still not leaning on Sharna enough, you have to trust her—and yourself.”

“I seem to be saying this to all the military men tonight,” Len began, “which I maybe shouldn't be so surprised about, but you have very good posture in hold, aside from the fact you're not quite close enough to Sharna. That goes into what Carrie Ann was saying. It was a good dance, though, and you've certainly been memorable. Well done.”

Bruno had his face half hidden in one hand, giggling. “I think I'm in shock. Emotional whiplash, that's what you've put us all through, you little devil, you. But—but—your lines need to be sharper and you do need to rely on your partner. Sharna is there for you. Don't be scared of her—she's not scared of you.”

Sharna kissed the top of his head and said, “He's right,” as Bucky carried her off to Erin. He set her down on their marks.

“Can we just—” Erin began. “You said in your package that Steve was going to cry, and despite how ridiculously boppy and fun your dance was—!” She stepped out of frame and returned, tugging Steve into the shot with her—he was redfaced with laughter, tears streaming down his face. He wiped his eyes. “You were right!” Erin declared, throwing up the hand that wasn't holding the mic.

Bucky laughed and threw an arm around Steve's shoulders. “Called it.”

Steve elbowed him. “You're the worst, jerk.”

“You love me, punk.” Bucky beamed.

“I do,” Steve admitted. “And I am glad you can joke about this.”

Sharna reached for the mic. “Can I just say I love their relationship?”

“I know, right?” Erin agreed. She waved a hand at the two men. “Goals, right here. Let's get your scores.”

 

Carrie Ann Inaba: “Seven.”

Len Goodman: “Seven.”

Bruno Tonioli: “Seven.”

 

“Twenty-one out of thirty for Bucky and Sharna,” Erin said. “I think you deserve bonus points for pulling one over on all of us.”

Bucky laughed and Steve scruffed his hair just as the camera cut away.

“Most memorable year week can be emotionally very difficult on this show,” Tom said soberly. “It certainly was this week for both Maximoff twins. Let's see how things were for Pietro.”

Pietro took a breath. “In 2014, our town—” he cut himself off, bowed his head, and put a hand over his eyes. He mumbled something in Sokovian that subtitled as, “Sorry.”

They showed news footage of what looked like a post apocalyptic wasteland: ruined streets strewn with rubble, the burnt out husks of what once were handsome buildings, the remnants of a playground at the edge of a crater, a mangled swing hanging from one chain.

In her interview chair, Wanda picked at her nail polish. “We got bombed,” she said and took a careful breath before continuing. “It was the end of the world.”

Now sitting in an armchair next to his sister, holding her hand, Pietro said in subtitled Sokovian, “ _The first one fell in town center and we could hear it even at our house. Then more and more fell. People were screaming._ ” Wanda squeezed his hand and he put his other hand over hers. “ _The ground shook, the ceiling fell in, there were horrible_ _screeching_ _sounds and whistling and roaring.”_

 _“Then everything was quiet,”_ Wanda murmured. Pietro nodded.

Pietro, Wanda, Anna, and Val were all sitting out in the parking lot of the practice studio. Wanda was in her brother's lap, his arms around her waist, his face hidden against her shoulder. “We were the only ones home,” she said as Anna and Val watched her in solemn silence. “We were getting ready for school, our parents were at work,” she took a shaky breath, “and our little sisters, Heléna and Nina, had already gone to school.” Pietro's arms tightened around her and she reached up to pet his hair. “He grabbed me and pulled me under the bedframe. It was solid wood so it was okay, but we were trapped there for days.”

“Our parents and sisters never came home,” Pietro mumbled. Anna quietly wiped a tear from her cheek.

In the studio, practicing, Anna took Pietro's arm, folded his hand into a fist, and brought it up to the level of his chest, parallel with the floor. “Your movements have to be strong and solid. Like you were protecting your sister, okay?”

He nodded.

Things came back to the ballroom as the hollow clang of a bell filled the room, accompanied by a blanket of fog. Pietro stood on the upper stage, dressed all in black, hand in hand with his sister dressed in red. Anna came up behind him shrouded in a black hooded cape, tore him away from Wanda as troop dancers pulled her offstage, and dragged him down the stairs for their paso doble to “For Whom the Bell Tolls” by Metallica.

As they danced, the cross-threads of Pietro's jacket caught the light and shone red. Anna's hood stayed pulled forward, hiding her face, until the very end of the dance when, with Pietro kneeling defeated at her feet, she pushed it back.

The music ended, Anna helped Pietro up, and she went over to the judges' table—but Pietro was no longer in the ballroom. Anna, Tom, and the judges looked around in confusion.

“Uh, does anybody have eyes on Pietro?” Tom asked.

It cut to one of the red room cameras, showing Pietro desperately hugging his sister, face hidden against her neck while she petted his hair. She flashed a luminous red glare over her twin's shoulder at the camera. The image panned quickly away, blurring from the movement as the camera operator hurried to give them their space.

“I think we'll go to commercial now,” Tom's voice said. It belatedly cut back to him. “We'll get Pietro and Anna's scores when we come back.”


	5. Chapter 5

After a couple insurance adds, some hype for Dog Cops and a new sitcom, and a brief news preview, it came back to Anna and Pietro now standing with Tom, her with an arm around Pietro's waist.

“Okay, now that we're all here,” Tom said, “Len what did you think?”

“That was really hard for you,” Len said somberly, “and I'd like to commend you for facing all of that tonight. You're still getting ahead of the music—I think that's going to be your biggest struggle this season—but you really did look like a leading man. And,” he shrugged, “you did better than last week.”

“You absolutely do look like a leading man,” Bruno announced. “You took charge, you're passionate, you're strong—the best brother anyone could hope to have, I'm sure. You did get ahead, it's true, but your form was good, you told your story, and you brought so much emotion. Beautiful, darling.”

Carrie Ann was crying. She smiled through her tears. “I didn't think I'd be able to even begin to imagine what you've gone through, but I could, because you showed me, you showed all of us with the emotion you put into that dance. That is such a difficult and scary place to go, but you did it, and you danced well, you didn't let it crush you, and I—” She shook her head, wiped her eye, and sniffled. “Thank you.”

Pietro nodded. His eyes were puffy. Anna gave him a squeeze and Tom put a hand on her shoulder. “If the two of you will stay right here, we'll go ahead and get your scores.”

 

Carrie Ann Inaba: “Eight.”

Len Goodman: “Seven.”

Bruno Tonioli: “Seven.”

 

“That's twenty-two out of thirty for Pietro and Anna,” Tom tabulated as the pair left the stage. “Now,” he said, “Wanda's most memorable year is the same as her brother's, but her experience of it is as different as she is from him.”

In the practice studio the same day as the conversation in the parking lot with Pietro and Anna, Val, subdued, said to Wanda, “I didn't know about your sisters.”

Wanda nodded and scrubbed a hand across her eyes. “Heléna was thirteen and,” she snuffled, “Nina had just turned eleven the day before.” Her voice cracked and she started crying. Val pulled her into a hug and tipped his head back to look up at the ceiling, blinking away his own tears.

In her armchair, being interviewed, Wanda smoothed out and held up a worn 8x11 photograph. “This is the only picture left of all of us.” A scan of the photo filled the screen, six smiling faces in front of a fireplace. “Me and Pietro are twelve, there, Heléna is eight, and Nina is almost six.” The three sisters were in matching green holiday dresses, their hair in ribbons, Nina up on her father's hip. Pietro was in a green vest, his hair the same dark brown as the rest of the family, his mother's hand on his shoulder.

“When we lost them,” Wanda said to Val, dabbing at her eyes with a folded tissue, “we lost everything we ever cared about. We didn't care what happened to us after that. That's why we volunteered for the experiments. It didn't matter if they killed us,” she said matter of factly, “we had nothing left.”

“I can't imagine,” Val said.

Wanda sniffed and smiled a little. “You're going to go hug Maks very hard next time you see him, aren't you?”

“Yes, yes I am.”

Dancing together with Val another day, Wanda misstepped, she cursed, then started crying. Val took her hands. “Hey, hey, it's okay. Why the tears?”

“Moyi sestry,” she said in Ukrainian. “They'd _love_ this.” She pulled one hand away from Val and scrubbed her arm across her face. “I want to do it right for them. And my mom. And my dad. I want them to look down and see me dance for them and be proud.”

“They are so proud of you, Wanda,” he said. He took a tissue held out by one of the camera crew and gave it to her. “You don't have to worry about that. Do you need a minute or do you want to try it again?”

Wanda dabbed her eyes with the tissue, tucked it into her sportsbra, and shook her head. “Again.”

The ballroom was quiet. In a long red dress, Wanda stood in the center of the dance floor, clinging to her brother as a mob of black cloaked figures closed in on them. They disappeared beneath the press of bodies, then the figures dispersed, leaving Wanda behind with Val. The intro to “This is War” by 30 Seconds to Mars built as Val pulled Wanda to her feet for their tango. Val had Wanda by the wrists, dragging her reluctantly through the steps until the lyrics declared that this is the moment to fight, at which point her head snapped up and she took charge.

When the dance was done and Wanda and Val went over for the judges' comments, Pietro appeared at Wanda's shoulder and wrapped his arms protectively around her waist.

“I haven't had a chance to stop crying,” Carrie Ann said, fanning herself with her hand. “What the two of you have gone through, it's so much. I feel like you were scared to let yourself really go there, though, which I can hardly blame you for, but it made the emotion of your dance feel a little shallow. You and Natasha can maybe help each other work on letting yourselves be vulnerable, because it really is hard. But, Wanda that was absolutely beautiful. Your family, I'm sure, is very proud of you.”

“I'm touched, I really am,” Len said. “I commended your brother and I commend you, too. As for the dance itself,” he shrugged, “your frame could have been stronger, but your footwork's pretty good.”

Bruno wiped his eyes before speaking. “Wanda, darling, you and Pietro, you're just too much for me. You're beautiful, darling, you are, and so graceful. You're still holding back, though, and I wish you wouldn't. Next week, if you're still here, and I certainly hope you're still here, don't be scared to let go, okay?”

In about a second, Wanda, Val, and Pietro were all up with Erin. “I'm just gonna hug the two of you,” she said, embracing Pietro, then Wanda. Once she let go, they went back to hugging each other. “The two of you are so strong. And Val, you and Anna, who, I'm not sure where she went, have done such a good job working with them this week.”

“We both did our best to honor everything Wanda and Pietro have been through,” Val said.

“Which we appreciate,” Wanda said softly. Pietro kissed her cheek, she turned her head to return the kiss and caught him on the corner of the mouth.

From off screen, Tony's voice said, “You know you're the wrong hair color to be Lanisters, right?”

Wanda glared and started yelling at him in Sokovian, ducking out of frame, presumably to go after Tony. Her mic cut out a moment before Val said, “That sounds like cursing.”

“It is,” Pietro confirmed offhandedly. “Should probably sensor that.” He pulled his sister back into frame, patting her shoulder.

“Well,” Erin breathed, “let's get your scores.”

 

Carrie Ann Inaba: “Eight.”

Len Goodman: “Seven.”

Bruno Tonioli, with a sidelong glance at Len: “Eight.”

 

Wanda got hugs from both sides and a congratulatory thump on the back from Val as Erin said, “That's a total of twenty-three for Wanda and Val.”

Tom was leaning on the judges' table when it cut back to him. “Now, Rhodey is Tony Stark's best friend, and we all know how... _intense_ Tony can be, so it really out to come as no surprise that for Rhodey, the most memorable year of his life is the year he met Tony.”

“So, in 1985,” Rhodey said in his interview, “I was eighteen. Tony Stark was fifteen but already in college 'cause, as we all know, he's too smart for his own good. We were in the same history class.”

A series of photos crossed the screen, all of Rhodey and Tony, both looking very young. Lounging together in hoodies across a couch here; Rhodey staring in abject horror at Tony standing on a table, waving a hand full of hundreds, there.

“Did you take me to the bar,” Tony asked in the practice studio hallway, “or did I take you?”

Alison's eyebrows shot up. Rhodey gave Tony a very unimpressed look. “You were fifteen, no way in hell was I gonna take you to a bar. You invited me, I said no and tried to talk you out of it, but you were going anyway so I changed my mind and went with you just to babysit your behind after you bought your way in.”

Tony chuckled wistfully. “Oh, yeah.”

“The reason he doesn't remember is he got stupid wasted,” Rhodey told Alison.

“I was not _that_ wasted,” Tony objected. Rhodey glared at him. He shrugged.

In his interview, Rhodey shook his head. “Tony's crazy. At this point I feel like I've spent half my life trying and failing to keep him out of trouble, and it's exhausting, but I wouldn't have it any other way. Can't imagine any other way.” He chuckled. “Life would be boring without him.”

In the practice room, Alison settled her weight into her hip and chewed her lip. “That's not gonna work.”

“Hm?” Rhodey asked.

“I had an idea but I don't think you can lift me comfortably.”

“Well,” Rhodey sighed, “why don't we find out?”

There was a brief montage of failed attempts, though thankfully no significant drops, then a final triumphant success followed by cheering and hugging.

Back in the ballroom, Rhodey and Alison were dressed to the '80s for their jazz as the iconic opening played to The Who's “Baba O'Riley,” better known as Teenaged Wasteland. The dance went well, despite Rhodey's handicaps, until the lift they'd been shown practicing in their package. He dropped her, but she got right back up and kept dancing like nothing had happened. At the end of the dance, Rhodey spent the entire walk over to the judges apologizing profusely to Alison while she told him it was okay.

“Well, that didn't go quite how you meant it to,” Len said after Tom cued him. “This is hard for you, we all know you have your limitations, but we're here to judge the dancing, we have to judge you the same as everyone. The truth is, that could have been better. The first bit wasn't bad, but things went wrong and you lost your confidence! You've spent your life keeping a spoiled rotten mad scientist at least halfway under control, I can't imagine how you, of all people, could lose confidence in anything.”

“Oh, I cringed,” Carrie Ann said. “Alison, I'm glad you're okay. Rhodey, I know it doesn't feel good to have a mistake like that, but I hope you don't feel too bad because that was a ton of fun. Chasing Tony around must have been completely crazy, but you got through it. You suffered a terrible injury, but you got through it and got here. And you got through that dance.”

“You know,” Bruno said, “you have a fantastic attitude. It's true, this is hard for you, but you come out and you have fun, and we love you for that darling.”

“Well, that was a little rough,” Erin said gently as Rhodey and Alison joined her.

“That was more than a little rough,” Rhodey said. “You know what, though? If a dance about going out drinking with Tony Stark didn't go wrong somehow it wouldn't be a dance about going out drinking with Tony Stark.”

Alison laughed into her hand. Erin blinked. “That is probably the best takeaway you could get from that. Alison, how do you feel?”

“Uh, little bruised, but,” she shrugged, “that was pretty ambitious considering Rhodey's limitations. I think, all in all, it didn't go too horribly. We did the best we could with how things are.”

“Very positive attitude there.” Erin smiled. “Let's get your scores.”

 

Carrie Ann Inaba, reluctantly: “Five.”

Len Goodman: “Four.”

Bruno Tonioli: “Five.”

 

“Fourteen out of thirty,” Erin said almost apologetically. “That can't feel good.”

Rhodey shrugged. “Feels like getting' a C on a paper you know you half-assed. Wish it was higher but you know it's the right fit.”

Erin blinked. “That's a really good way of putting it. And still with the positive attitude. I love this guy. Tom?”

“We'll hear from Foggy and Jenna and Matt and Peta,” Tom said, “when we come back!”

 


	6. Chapter 6

“Welcome back to Dancing with the Stars,” Tom said cheerily. “Like Rhodey, Foggy's most memorable year is the year he met his best friend. Let's take a look.”

“Everybody who goes to college remembers their freshman year,” Foggy said in his interview. “It's a crazy time. Off on your own in the world for the first time, no parental supervision, and of course the whole roommate thing.” He laughed.

Foggy, Jenna, and Matt were all sitting on the steps in one of the practice rooms. Matt jerked a thumb in Foggy's general direction. “He was moved in before me.”

Foggy nodded. “I was sitting on my bed and this skinny blind ginger kid walks in and is like, so I'm your roommate.”

“I was not ginger. I was already outgrowing being properly ginger by age nine.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Foggy said dismissively, but he was smiling. “I was a little worried he'd just steal all the girls 'cause he's way hotter than me.”

“One of the first things he said to me was 'you're hot,' actually,” Matt said to Jenna, who giggled.

“Took a while to convince him I wasn't gay after that.”

“You told me you weren't.”

“Doesn't mean you believed me.”

Matt shook his head. “In any case, I did not steal all the girls from you.”

“No,” Foggy admitted. “You're actually a pretty good wingman. You know what would make you a better wingman, though?”

“Foggy, no,” Matt groaned.

“If you had a dog.”

“I'm not getting a guide dog, Foggy.”

“You've had this conversation before, haven't you?” Jenna asked.

“Frequently,” Matt said. “Starting with that first semester of college. Pets weren't allowed in the dorms, but service animals were, so he kept trying to get me to get a guide dog so we could have a dog in the dorm.”

“Dogs are cool!” Foggy said.

“So get your own dog!” Matt shoved Foggy's shoulder.

Practicing with Foggy, Jenna explained, “So we're doing a jive, which is kinda fast and hectic, a little like dealing with college.”

Foggy chuckled. “Yeah.”

Another day, after finishing some dancing, Foggy flopped on the floor and felt around until he found his water bottle. Jenna leaned over him. “You okay?”

“I am the tubby friend,” Foggy panted, “and this is fast.”

“You can do it though,” Jenna said encouragingly.

“If I can _breathe_ , sure.”

Things came back to the ballroom where “Kid Gloves” by Rush was starting. Foggy was in a warm grey suit and Jenna was in a Columbia blue halter dress for their jive.

He ruffled her skirt as they danced and they mock-punched each other. She cartwheeled gratuitously. By the end of the dance, Foggy was out of breath. Jenna fanned him as they went over to the judges.

“That was so much fun,” Carrie Ann said. “You bring so much enthusiasm to the ballroom—Jenna was kind of dancing around you, and you could use to point your toes more, but you're a joy to watch.”

“You know, jive is a difficult dance,” Len said, “and I think all those kicks and flicks kicked your behind a little bit, didn't they? That said, you sure got your story across. You're right, everyone does remember their freshman year, even me and that was a while ago. I just wish your dancing were as memorable.”

Bruno's gaze slid over to Len. “You stole what I was going to say. I don't think that's ever happened before. Oh well, Franklin, my dear,” Bruno turned his attention, “if you're still with us next week—and I certainly hope you're with us next week—I believe you can keep up with Jenna, dance _with_ her, don't just let her dance around you. Look at her, every man in America wishes he were you, take advantage of the opportunity you have here.”

Foggy nodded and thanked the judges before going off hand in hand with Jenna to the sky box.

“Not just every man in America wishes they were you,” Erin said. “I wanna dance with Jenna too.” Jenna and Foggy laughed. Erin continued, “Really though, we can all tell you're having fun here.”

“I really am,” Foggy said. “I know I'm not the best dancer. I hope I'm not the worst dancer, but even if I am….” He shrugged.

“Let's get your scores.”

 

Carrie Ann Inaba: “Six.”

Len Goodman: “Five.”

Bruno Tonioli: “Six.”

 

“That's seventeen out of thirty for Foggy and Jenna,” Erin said.

Foggy looked over at Jenna. “Let's do better next week? If we're here.”

“We'll do better next week,” Jenna said.

 

“This week was rough for Matt,” Tom said soberly, “as he and Peta revisited the two biggest losses of his life.”

Over a dark screen, sounds of a car crash played. Matt in his interview chair faded up from black. “It was one of those flatbed trucks with a bunch of metal barrels on it. It ran a red light—the driver had fallen asleep—it went through a bunch of trashcans and a food cart, and I saw that it was going to hit this old man. It was headed right for him and he wasn't going to be fast enough to get out of the way. I didn't really think about it, I just ran over and like tackled him out of the road. I was nine and it seemed like the best thing to do.” He sighed. “Of course _I_ got hit instead. Not bad, not nearly as bad as it could have been, I only had a couple broken ribs. I think the truck hit the curb or something—it tipped over and one of the barrels burst. The stuff got all over me.” Matt grimaced. “It smelled sweet, but disgusting, and it itched and it burned my eyes and nose and mouth.”

News footage ran, showing the cleanup after the accident. Barrels strewn across the side street were clearly marked biohazard.

“My dad was there so fast,” Matt said quietly. “He was leaning over me, telling me it was going to be okay, then everything started swimming and going blurry and then going dark.” He took a carefully controlled breath. “My dad's face was the last thing I ever saw.”

Things faded to black, then a photo faded up of a very young Matt—around three years old with a shock of bright red curls—sitting on his father's shoulders.

“I was always close to my father.”

The photo changed to one of a slightly older Matt wearing too big boxing gloves, one of them pressed to the side of his father's face while the man hammily reacted to the mock punch.

“It was always just me and him,” Matt said softly to Peta, fiddling with his glasses. “My mother left when I was a baby, I don't even remember her. So it was me and my dad against the world. He was a boxer, so I wanted to be a boxer. My favorite color was red because he always wore red to fight. He was my hero. He was my whole world.” Peta gently put her hand over his.

Back in his interview, Matt explained, “Losing my sight was a lot to adjust to, but I was young and still learning anyway, and I had my dad, so I was okay. He supported me, made sure I had everything I needed—books to learn Braille and all that, I remember he got me a pair of sunglasses 'like all the cool guys wear.' That's how he described them.” Matt smiled to himself. The smile faded, he bowed his head, and whispered. “Nine months later he was dead.”

A headline showed: _Boxer, Jonathan "Battling Jack" Murdock, Shot Dead After Match._

Talking to Peta, Matt wiped his eyes. “When I lost him, my world ended.” Peta wiped her own eyes as he continued. “I remember being held back by a police officer and screaming and clawing at this guy because I just wanted to go to my dad.” He sucked in a shaky breath. “I mean I get it, especially now, you're not gonna let a nine year old into a murder scene, but I just wanted my dad.”

“Of course you did.” Peta squeezed his hand then pulled him into a hug. He put his arms around her. His shoulders shook. She leaned her cheek against his hair. “Of course you did.”

Things faded back to the ballroom. Matt and Peta were on the floor in a spotlight, sitting on their knees in front of one another, hand in hand, her in a red satin gown that seemed to go on for miles, him all in black without his glasses, eyes closed. “I Didn't Know I'd Love You So Much” from _Repo: The Genetic Opera_ began. He touched her face and she mirrored the gesture, then she reached for the heavens, he caught her hand, and held it to his chest as they both rose to their feet, her skirts rippling around them like an ocean of blood.

She spent their contemporary pulling away from him. Matt spent it trying to keep her from going. In the end, he wound up on his knees in the middle of the floor again, she kissed his hair and walked way, leaving him alone reaching for her, tears rolling down his face. Her skirt just slipped through his fingers.

As soon as the usual lights came back up, she ran back to him and hugged him hard. She said something to him that the mics didn't pick up. He nodded and wiped his eyes

They walked to the judges with her still hugging him. Tom handed Matt a tissue. Matt thanked him. Tom started to say something, stopped, shook his head, and said, “I don't know what there is to say to that so I'm just going to let our judges figure out something. Len?”

Len took a breath, covertly wiped his eyes, and shook his head. “Where to begin? Are we sure it's only week two? I am astounded by the level of technique you are already able to bring to the dancefloor and how much emotion you're able to convey. And I must admit I cannot imagine how you you, as a blind man, manage to have such awareness of your partner. I'm impressed.”

“He trusts her, that's how,” Bruno said, also wiping his eyes. “That's apparent to everyone watching—Matt, you and Peta have developed such a strong partnership so quickly, there's a level of trust that we rarely see until two or three more weeks in, and that trust is what allows you to do to,” he gestured, “those lifts or that drag and is, I think, what made it possible for you to go where you did tonight within yourself and show everyone that story. And that's a beautiful thing, my dear.”

Peta nodded and gave Matt a squeeze. The camera turned to Carrie Ann, who had her elbow up on the table, one hand shielding her eyes. She lowered her hand, crying openly. “I,” she shook her head, “I have no words. I've been sitting here trying—to get myself together to speak but I really can't. I don't think there's anyone in here who didn't tear up. It is so hard to do what you just did, and relive your hardest moments so vividly, to take us there with you, and to do it with such grace no less. I think it's fair to say you've bared your soul here tonight and I thank you for that.”

Matt nodded, the studio lights catching brightly in the puffy hazel of his eyes.

“Carrie Ann is right,” Tom said, “there wasn't anyone not crying, myself included. And we're going to keep the two of you right here to get your scores, if you would.”

 

Carrie Ann Inaba: “Nine! Oh, don't look at me like that, he deserves it.”

Len Goodman: “Eight.”

Bruno Tonioli, with a shrug: “Eight!”

 

“Alright, alright, very nice,” Tom said. “That's twenty-five out of thirty and the earliest nine I think we've ever had. Now if you'll go join our other couples on the stage.” As Matt and Peta joined the others on the stage, Erin joined Tom. “All of you at home need to vote for them if you want to keep seeing them because, unfortunately someone has to go home.”

“That's right,” Erin said. “The judges' scores and your votes from last Monday night have been combined and we can now reveal which couples are safe and who is in jeopardy.”

“Okay,” Tom said, looking at his cue card as the scary elimination music played and the lights went down dramatically. “The first couple in jeopardy is,” there was a pause as one couple after another showed on screen, “Rhodey and Alison.”

They showed the pair, Alison with her lips pressed into a line while Rhodey nodded faintly.

“Also on the bottom tonight are,” Erin said, followed by the obligatory dramatic pause, “Bruce and Edyta.”

Bruce shrugged and Edyta rubbed his shoulder.

“Joining them in jeopardy are,” Tom said, followed by an even longer dramatic pause, “Wanda and Val.”

Wanda chewed her lip while Val hugged her. Pietro's hand appeared from out of frame to pet her hair.

“The rest of our couples are safe,” Erin said, “and will be coming back next week for Disney night.”

The lights went down on all but the three at-risk couples. “Alright,” Tom said, “Rhodey and Alison, Bruce and Edyta, Wanda and Val—one of these three couples has the lowest combined total of judges' scores and viewer votes from last week. The first couple to be eliminated this season is,” the dramatic paused stretched excessively, “Bruce and Edyta.”

A group hug descended upon them, led by Tony. Erin said, “Edyta, no! This is like season twenty-two all over again! Can you guys come down here?” Bruce and Edyta waded through the hug to join Erin. “Bruce, I know you said when you joined us that you don't dance, but I do hope you've had fun here.”

“I have.” Bruce nodded, one arm around Edyta. “I really have. And I've made a good friend in Edyta. This has been unlike anything I've ever done in my life and I'm glad to have done it.”

“Well,” Erin said, “we're glad to have had you with us.”

“Come down here for one last bow, why don't you?” Tom said. “The rest of our couples will be back next week but they still need your votes. Coming up next, a very special episode of Dog Cops—they're crossing over with Switched at Birth. Stay tuned to see how that turns out. We'll see you next Monday.”


End file.
